Springfield Springs Forward
by Dead Composer
Summary: The epic adventures of The Simpsons, a year later! Bart repeats fourth grade! Lisa goes to prep school! Guest appearance by Ozmodiar!
1. Repeat the Fourth Grade

This story is rated PG-13, but don't expect to encounter anything more offensive than what already appears on the show.

Disclaimer: I am not Matt Groening, nor am I affiliated with the FOX network or (thankfully) their reality TV division.

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Author's introduction: Springfield Springs Forward is the first in a planned epic series of Simpsons adventures taking place one year after the timeline of the TV series. (In other words, Lisa is 9 and Bart is 11.) It will stay close to the spirit of the show, while also introducing THoH-style fantasy elements.

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Repeat the fourth grade.

Repeat the fourth grade.

"Don't try to stop me, Seymour!" shrieked Edna Krabappel, fervently clutching the rope around her neck.

"I won't, I promise," said Principal Skinner uneasily as sweat poured down his cheeks. "But please, before you flee this life, tell me what it is you're fleeing from. Is it Superintendent Chalmers? God knows, I've felt his whip against my back as well."

"I tried every trick in the book to advance Bart to the fifth grade," moaned the despondent teacher. "I intentionally left the wall map hanging open so he could get an A on the geography test. But it wasn't enough. He failed. He faaailed…"

"What you're experiencing is commonly known as 'post-Bartum depression'," Skinner explained. "It's a treatable medical condition. Now if you'll just let me…"

He stopped abruptly as Mrs. Krabappel released her grip on the noose, kicked the wooden chair out from under her pumps…

…and crashed to the floor in a heap.

Skinner winked slyly at Groundskeeper Willie, who had stealthily climbed atop the desk and unfastened Edna's rope from the ceiling fan. "Ye owe me a beer, lad," said the bushy-faced Scot.

Repeat the fourth grade. The words pounded again and again in Bart's head, as if all the bullies at Springfield Elementary had formed a jazz ensemble and were using his skull and eardrums as a drum set.

While he dolefully poked at his bacon and eggs, Lisa shoveled down one spoonful of oatmeal after another, as if anxious to store fuel for the thrilling day ahead. From the sparkle in her wide eyes to the well-coiffed points in her hair, she looked like a little girl about to be crowned Princess Regent of a European country.

"Hurry up and finish your breakfast, Bart," said Marge, who was bracing up little Maggie by the hands in hopes that the baby girl would take her first steps.

"Mom, this breakfast is the only thing standing between me and another year with Mrs. Krabappel," said Bart miserably. As if to encourage him, Santa's Little Helper suddenly draped his paws over the plate and devoured the eggs and bacon. "Thanks a lot, Man's Best Friend," Bart grumbled.

Maggie, between thoughtful sucks on her pacifier, succeeded in moving her foot slightly forward. "She's taking a step!" gushed Marge, dropping the infant while lunging for the video camera.

While she taped more footage of Maggie sprawled on the floor, Homer burst into the kitchen, arms waving, clad only in his briefs. "Good morning, everyone!" he bellowed.

"Er, Dad, aren't you forgetting something?" said Lisa helpfully.

Struck with terror, Homer patted his chest with his hands. "Omigod! My bra!"

"You don't wear a bra!" Marge reminded him.

"I don't?" Homer sighed dejectedly. "No wonder my boobs sag."

"Homer, why do you always get drunk on the night before the first day of school?" asked Bart.

"Do I?" Homer marveled.

"It's because he loves you very much, and this is a very special day for you," explained Marge.

"Nah, it's just coincidence," said Homer dismissively.

Lisa glanced down at her empty bowl. "I'm finished," she declared proudly.

"What about you, Bart?" said Marge.

"I'll just starve," the boy groaned. "Hopefully, to death."

"Get your things," Marge ordered. "And, Homer, don't go to work like that."

"Fine," groused Homer, removing the flowerpot from his head.

Darkness and dread filled Bart's soul as he lashed onto his back the same books he had spent the last school year occasionally opening. Lisa seemed to skip on air in her pink dress and red buckle shoes. She missed her Systems Analyst Malibu Stacy lunchbox, but she wouldn't need it where she was going.

While Marge drove away in the red sedan with Lisa and Maggie, Bart trudged hopelessly to the bus stop. His best friend Milhouse was among the children congregated there, so he tried to put on a pleasant face.

"Hey, Bart," the bespectacled boy greeted him. "Too bad you can't go to fifth grade with the cool kids. And me."

"Yeah, but look at the bright side," said Bart, forcing a smile. "I'll be the biggest kid in the class. Well, except for Kearney."

"Ha ha!" Nelson taunted him. "You failed fourth grade!"

"Ha ha!" Bart retorted. "Summer's over and you don't have a new catchphrase yet!"

"What's your new catchphrase, Bart?" asked Sherri and Terri in unison.

"Hasta la manzana, dudes," said Bart with a casual wave.

Sherri giggled. "I don't get it," said Terri in confusion. "See you apple? That doesn't make sense."

"Sherri took Spanish last year," Sherri told Bart.

"I'm Terri," Terri pointed out. "You're Sherri."

"Whoops," Sherri realized. "We switched lunchboxes again."

Shortly the school bus arrived, and Bart was the first to board. An obese, nearly bald man in a pink shirt and shorts welcomed him from behind the steering wheel. "Yo, Bart dude!"

"Yo, whoever the hell you are," was Bart's cold response.

"It's the Lyme disease, man," muttered Otto sadly as he watched the boy stroll past.

Bart tried to occupy the space next to his one-time natural enemy Martin Prince, who turned his face in disdain. "Do not contaminate me with your aura of underachievement," he said haughtily.

As the bus began to roll, Bart gave up and sat down next to Ralph. "How does it feel to be in third grade?" he asked, trying to start a conversation.

"What's a grade?" said Ralph innocently.

Bart sighed in despair.

"Miss Hoover says I'm special," said Ralph, sticking a finger up his nose.

When Bart shuffled into Mrs. Krabappel's room, he encountered a sea of threatening faces. Many were kids he knew. Many were kids he had wedgied. The others seemed curious to know if the legends of a Bart Simpson were really true.

"We meet again, Bart," scowled Edna as the unhappy boy sat down at his old desk. "This time you'll make it to fifth grade—even if it kills you."

Not long afterward, Lisa sprang from the passenger seat of Marge's car and literally danced her way through the wide-open gates of the place she would call _alma mater_ for the rest of the school year, and with any luck, for the rest of her elementary education.

Springfield Preparatory School.

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To be continued! Reviews! Suggestions! Bring 'em on!


	2. We'll Always Hate Paris

More than anything, except perhaps band practice, Lisa enjoyed hanging out with the local Mensa club. Dr. Hibbert, Principal Skinner, Professor Frink, Comic Book Guy, and the brilliant, lovely Lindsey Neagle had become almost as much a family to her as her family.

"So we can plainly see," said Frink as he pored over a map of the Springfield highway system, "that by lengthening the intervals of the traffic signals at the intersection of Route 401 and Broadway Avenue, we can reduce the total amount of carbon monoxide emissions by three percent, thus complying with the new EPA regulations."

"Best…plan…ever," said Comic Book Guy.

"I'll propose it to the mayor immediately," Skinner offered.

"The folks in the respiratory wing of Springfield Hospital will be pleased as punch to hear this," said Hibbert with a chuckle.

"Dungeons and Dragons at the store, tomorrow evening at seven," announced Comic Book Guy as the group disassembled.

While the others went their way, Lindsey held out a palm to stop Lisa. "I need to go, Ms. Neagle," said the girl. "My mom's waiting."

"She can wait a little longer," said the short-haired blonde in the power dress. "Lisa, I have a proposition for you. How would you like to spend third grade at Springfield Preparatory School?"

Lisa gasped with delight. "I'd love to! But my parents can't afford it."

"My company, Advanced Capital Enterprises, has experienced great success over the past fiscal year," Lindsey related. "We're so far in the black that I can afford to indulge in a few…personal projects."

"Like what?"

"Scholarships."

Hope began to trickle into Lisa's heart—hope she had never dared to entertain.

"Lisa, you're different from other eight-year-olds," Lindsey went on. "I knew it from the moment you challenged Mr. Burns' restructuring of the First Church of Springfield. I'm convinced that without you, Springfield would irradiate itself off the map. That's why I'm organizing a second-grade essay contest. The grand prize will be a full-year scholarship to Springfield Prep."

"An essay contest," Lisa mused. "What's the subject?"

"The same things we've been talking about in our meetings. What's wrong with Springfield, and how to fix it. You can't lose."

"Jesus, Mary, and Buddha," Lisa muttered silently. "My dreams are coming true."

The contest lasted two weeks, although Lisa finished her essay in only four days without being coached. Her friends' entries featured many humorous statements.

"To bring about equality between jocks and nerds, I propose that school athletics be abolished," wrote Martin.

"Springfield should become famous by inventing bubble gum that dissolves in your mouth," wrote Milhouse.

"Twins should get into the movies for half price," wrote Sherri and Terri.

"My teacher says I'm the class clown, but I don't have a red nose," wrote Ralph.

----

The centerpiece of Springfield Prep's front courtyard was a brazen fountain surrounded by marble cherubs. Well-trimmed rose hedges flanked the ivy-strewn brick walls surrounding the campus. To Lisa's eager, grateful eyes it was nirvana on Earth. She wondered how Springfield Elementary would survive and remain accredited without her. Would Francine find an unfortunate new girl to torment? Would Ralph be lonely?

Ralph. Why couldn't she stop thinking about him? Perhaps because near the end of the last school year, the boy had started bringing items from his father's evidence bins, such as a packet of anthrax spores, to show-and-tell. Or was it…something else? Like the love note he had written to Janey with his own ear wax?

"Hi, Lisa," called a little blond girl who was playing hopscotch.

"Greta!" Lisa exclaimed, thrilled to see her good friend. The daughter of action movie star Rainier Wolfcastle had often invited her and Bart to events at the family's mansion, and they had shared some intimate moments.

----

"I have something to tell you," Lisa whispered to Greta, glancing aside to make sure the other pajama-clad girls were occupied elsewhere. "You've got to promise never to tell anyone else."

"I promise," Greta vowed.

Lisa leaned closer and breathed into her friend's bejeweled ear. "Bart wears two pairs of underpants."

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"It's so good to see you again, Greta," said Lisa cheerfully.

"Lisa, this is my friend Ashleigh," said Greta, motioning toward a slender girl with curly red hair tied behind her head, and a tiny Chihuahua cradled in her bracelet-laden arms.

"Pleased to meet you," said Lisa politely. "What a cute little dog."

"Her name's Tinkerbell," said Ashleigh, who wore a gaudy green dress with thin straps. The little Mexican dog yawned.

"Tinkerbell?" Lisa mused. "Isn't that…"

"Yes," Ashleigh replied. "I named her after Paris Hilton's dog. She's hot."

"You like Paris Hilton?" said Lisa incredulously.

"Totalleigh," said Ashleigh, whose voice suddenly jumped in pitch and speed. "I've got, like, notebooks full of pictures of her, and posters all over my walls, and I've got, like, all her outfits, and I've even got a diamond tiara, it's fake, but you totalleigh can't tell if you, like, look at it from far away, and I wash my hair, like, three times a day, and I use complexion cream, and I wanna be just like Paris, and I don't mean because of the shopping and the partying and stuff, but because it's fun, plus there's, like, shopping and partying and stuff."

"Uh…" Lisa tried to interject.

"Look at this," said Ashleigh, opening a magazine she had drawn from her book bag while clutching Tinkerbell under her other arm. "It's Chanel's new line of girls' dresses."

"That's you," remarked Lisa, recognizing the young lady in the picture.

"Totalleigh. I'm hot."

"You're an attractive girl," said Lisa, "but frankly, I think you should seek out a better role model. Paris Hilton's just a rich snob who never did a day's honest work in her life."

"You're just jealous," said Ashleigh. "It's hot."

At a loss for what to say, Lisa grumbled under her breath and followed Greta toward the brownstone arch that made up the school entrance.

"I think Paris Hilton should be sent to Fallujah," she said bitterly. "That would be a true reality show."

"Ashleigh's only here because her parents inherited a mattress franchise," Greta told her. "But not all the girls are like her."

"Really?"

"Yeah. There's you, me…uh, you…"

"You already said me."

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More to come! Please review!


	3. Little Green Men

Lisa almost found herself wondering why the desks weren't gold-plated, as nearly every other student in the classroom was clad in the finest Gucci and Chanel fashions. A few of them stared at her as if she were a homeless person who had stumbled upon their Thanksgiving dinner. _I must be the poorest kid in the room_, she thought. _It's like being the weirdest kid, or the dumbest kid. I'll attract all kinds of attention, most of it negative_.

"Welcome to third grade, students," said the slender, young-looking blonde at the head of the class. "I'm Mrs. Townsend, and I'll be your teacher." Even she was wearing a fancy dress—probably one of the perks of her position.

One by one the children stood and introduced themselves, though it seemed to Lisa that they were competing to see who could raise their nose the highest.

"I'm Lisa Simpson," she said when her turn came. "My dad works at the nuclear plant. I like Malibu Stacy dolls, ponies, and ending world hunger. I'm currently reading the complete poems of Pablo Neruda. It's true I'm not rich like the rest of you, but remember that your parents were once poor, and had to work hard to get to where they are today." The other pupils rewarded her with blank stares. "Okay, your grandparents were once poor." The blank stares continued. "Great-grandparents?"

A brown-haired boy in the back of the room spoke up. "My great-grandfather was a humble coal miner," he said in a quivering voice. "He started with nothing, but he knew the value of hard work. He opened a drug store, but it burned down. He opened another, and it went bankrupt. His third drug store turned into a national chain. He became incredibly wealthy, but he never forgot his humble beginnings."

"That's a lovely story," said Lisa with a smile. "What's your name?"

"Taylor Q. Beiderbeck the Fourth," the boy replied.

As Lisa seated herself, she overheard two girls whispering back and forth. "I think I'll call her Little Orphan Annie," said one of them.

"I'll bet those pearls are painted on," said the other.

"Now let me tell you a little about myself," said Mrs. Townsend after the last student had concluded. "I've been teaching at Springfield Prep for five years. I started as a second-grade teacher. I received my teaching degree from Harvard University. I have four beautiful children, who are currently in the care of their nanny."

_Yeah, right_, thought Lisa as she regarded the teacher's wasp-like figure. _What did you do, have the nanny give birth to them for you?_

"Our first class of the day is English," said Mrs. Townsend. "To start off, I'd like to play a little game, to see what level you're at."

_A little game_, thought Lisa bitterly. _I hope it's not 'One of These Words Is Not Like the Other'._

"I'll recite a verse of poetry, and you'll get the chance to raise your hand and tell me who the poet is," said the teacher.

_Fabulous!_ thought Lisa with delight. _I'm going to like this school._

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty; that is all you know on Earth, and all you need to know."

Lisa racked her brain. _I know that one…who is it…_

Ashleigh's hand shot up. "_Ode to a Grecian Urn_ by Keats," she declared. "I totalleigh love that poem. It's, like, so true."

Lisa groaned. She wondered what kind of school allowed a girl to bring a dog to class.

"Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough, a book of verse, a jug of wine, and thou…"

Lisa's hand went up, but three other students were quicker. "The _Rubaiyat_ of Omar Khayyam," said a boy with reflecting black leather shoes.

"Here's a hard one," said Mrs. Townsend. "The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream."

Lisa almost shouted "Wallace Stevens!" before bothering to raise her hand.

"Very good, Lisa," said the teacher. Lisa feared to acknowledge the reason why she knew that particular poem. Her father had once discovered it by opening a book of poetry to a random page, and had spent the rest of the day parading about with a scoop in one hand, bellowing, "I am the emperor of ice cream!"

She answered many more questions correctly, but as the students filed out at the end of first period, few of them offered her more than a passing glance or a scowl.

"You did good in there," Greta commended her.

"You mean I did _well_," was Lisa's response.

"English class is over," said Greta facetiously. "You have to wait until tomorrow to correct my grammar."

As they walked and conversed, Lisa saw a red-headed boy approaching with a leash in one hand. On the other end of the leash was a harness attached to the neck and shoulders of a handsome golden retriever.

"Another kid with a dog?" she remarked as the boy passed by without seeming to notice her. "I just got here, and the school's already going to the dogs."

"That's a seeing-eye dog," Greta pointed out.

"A seeing-eye dog?" Lisa froze, embarrassed. "That means…he's…"

Greta watched in bemusement as her friend turned and rushed in the direction of the boy with the dog.

* * *

"Let's begin with the Declaration of Independence," said Mrs. Krabappel to her class of fourth-graders. "Can anyone tell me who the first signer of the Declaration was?"

Bart raised his hand. "Michael Jordan," he said mockingly.

"Bart Simpson," said Edna with a frown that seemed to drain all life from the room, "that's the exact same wrong answer you gave me a year ago."

"You asked me to repeat fourth grade," said Bart. "That's what I'm doing."

Mrs. Krabappel fought valiantly to contain her anger and disgust as Bart resisted her efforts to teach him things he already knew.

"Why should I give a crap about the founding fathers?" said the petulant boy. "They're just a bunch of old, dead Fuddruckers."

"That's it!" Edna ranted. "I won't tolerate such vulgar and disrespectful language in my class."

"If you don't like it, sue the restaurant," said Bart flippantly.

"Go to the principal's office," the teacher ordered him. "And this time, don't come back."

As Bart skipped merrily from the room, Mrs. Krabappel clenched her fists and tried to regain her composure. _I'm going to kill him_, she thought angrily. _I'm really going to kill Bart Simpson_.

Two identical girls with blue hair ribbons raised their hands. "What?" the teacher snapped.

"The first signer of the Declaration of Independence was John Hancock," said Sherri and Terri in unison.

"That's correct," said Edna, a bit calmer. "But aren't the two of you supposed to be in fifth grade?"

"We're just background characters," Sherri and Terri answered.

* * *

"I'm sorry for the crack about the dog," Lisa apologized profusely. "I didn't realize you were blind."

"My name's Ernst Gropius," said the boy, who appeared to be a year older than she was. "What's your name?"

"I'm Lisa," replied Lisa, slightly disconcerted that her new friend looked over her shoulder while talking to her. "Lisa Simpson."

Ernst stuck out a smooth hand in the direction of her voice, and she paused from allowing the dog to lick her palm. "It's nice to meet you," he said as they shook hands.

"Are you related to Walter Gropius, founder of the Bauhaus school of architecture?" Lisa inquired.

"Yes," Ernst told her. "He's my great-great-grandfather."

"How exciting," said Lisa dreamily.

"Both of my parents are architects," Ernst related. "My mom designed the new Jebediah Springfield museum."

"That's amazing," said Lisa. "Not many women can balance a successful career with a family like that."

"What do your parents do?" Ernst asked her.

"Er…ah…" _I should tell him the truth_, she thought. _But the truth is so bland compared to what he just told me about himself…_

"My dad's into nuclear science," she half-lied.

"Oh, I get it," said Ernst with a chuckle. "You can't give me any details, or else you'll have to kill me in the interest of national security. What about your mom?"

"Uh…well, she's multi-talented, but my dad brings in enough that she doesn't have to work."

* * *

"Please, Mr. Burns," Homer begged desperately. "I've got a wife and three kids, and we're working on number four, and the house payments are murder. I really, really need this raise."

Burns tented his fingers and glowered as the bald fat man appealed to his generosity. "Things can't be that tough for your family," the old wraith remarked. "I understand that your daughter Lisa, my youngest mortal enemy, started to attend Springfield Preparatory School today."

"That's different," Homer insisted. "Her tuition is being paid by a mysterious benefactor named Lindsey Neagle."

"Neagle, eh?" Burns grinned, and the gaps between his teeth appeared to widen. "It never ceases to astound me that such a brilliant woman should be so generous. Perhaps you should be asking her for a raise, not me."

"But she's not my boss," said Homer, and an ingenious idea suddenly struck him. "Hey…"

"Smithers, show him the door," said Burns to his right-hand man, who at the moment was manicuring his right hand.

"I think he knows the way, sir," said Smithers flatly.

"I mean the trap door, you ninny."

Homer emerged from the skunk pit grumbling and smelling awful. "Stupid stinky skunks…stupid stinky Burns…stupid stinky job…stupid stinky life…"

As he trudged toward the company washroom in hopes of burying the stench in layers of soap suds, safety inspector Mindy Simmons strolled past. "Hey, Homer," she said in a seductive tone. "Are you wearing a new cologne, or did you get turned down for a raise?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," muttered Homer without looking up at the shapely redhead.

"At least you didn't get the leeches," said Mindy with a shudder. "Ooooh, the leeches…"

Homer spent half of his lunch break in the shower, but his vigorous bathing failed to remove the scent of skunk. Then, as he was cleansing his scalp for the seventh time, a figure appeared before his eyes.

At first he thought the soap in his eyes was causing him to hallucinate. He had never seen anything like the stranger—a man six inches tall, hovering in the air, his skin as green as his uniform and headgear. Three radio-like antennae jutted out of his bulbous helmet.

"Waugh!" cried Homer, sticking his hands in front of his legs and dropping his bar of soap.

"Relax, dumb-dumb," said the green man in a condescending tone. "I didn't travel six billion light years just to sneak a peek at your doodle."

"Probe me and get it over with," said Homer, whirling about and bending over. "I won't resist."

He waited a few seconds for an unpleasant sensation, but none came. He turned around. The apparition was gone. Only the droplets of water pouring from the shower head greeted his eyes.

"I must be going crazy," he reflected. "Little green spacemen don't just disappear."

* * *

to be continued 


	4. A Rude Shock

As the school day ended, both Marge and Rainier Wolfcastle drove to Springfield Prep to pick up their daughters.

"See ya tomorrow, Greta," said Lisa to her friend.

"As my dad always says, 'You haven't seen the last of me,'" responded Greta as she boarded her father's Mercedes.

"Do I always say that?" Wolfcastle mused. "Geez, my dialogue's getting stale."

While on the road, Lisa began to regale her mother with stories of her wondrous first day at the prep school. "It's so different from Springfield Elementary, Mom. Everyone there is super rich, and some of them are stuck up, but a lot of them are really smart. And I met this nice blind boy."

"A blind boy?" said Marge, intrigued.

"He has a seeing-eye dog," Lisa went on. "And his great-great-grandfather was Walter Gropius."

"He groped you _where_?"

"No, Mom," said Lisa in frustration. "Walter Gropius was a great architect."

"Oh," said Marge with a relieved sigh. "Like I.M. Pei."

"That's right."

Marge fell into silent thought as she steered onto Route 401. Finally she inquired, "Is he rich?"

"Yes," Lisa replied. "His parents are both successful architects."

Marge suppressed a chuckle.

"What?"

_He's rich_, Marge thought deviously. _Maybe I should call him I.M. Paydirt._

Shortly after they arrived home, Bart disembarked the school bus and walked inside with a huge grin on his cheerful face. "You look like someone who had a good day at school," Marge remarked.

"You have no idea," said Bart as he dropped his book bag on the floor next to Santa's Little Helper. "This day made repeating fourth grade worthwhile."

"You did something bad, didn't you?" Lisa scolded him.

"You have no idea."

"Stop saying that."

"Are you ready for this?" said Bart ominously.

"Just say it," said his mother.

Bart took a deep, proud breath. "I broke Mrs. Krabappel's brain."

"You _what_?" cried Marge and Lisa together.

"I said, I broke…"

"We heard you," said Marge.

"I used some police tape I borrowed from Chief Wiggum's office," Bart boasted, "and I set up a police line around Mrs. K's desk, with a chalk outline of a big fat ugly lady. When Mrs. K showed up, she crossed the police line and slipped on the grease I'd brushed all over the floor, and fell right on her head. She tried to get up, but she slipped and fell down again. Everybody was laughing. Then she started screaming and ran out of the room. She didn't come back for the rest of the day. Principal Skinner had to fill in for her. I'm supposed to be in detention right now, but I'm not."

Marge and Lisa only glared indignantly at him.

"You have no appreciation for slapstick comedy," Bart chided them.

"You are evil, Bart," said Lisa as she walked away in a huff. "Evil, evil, _evil_."

"Get in the car," Marge ordered her son. "I'm taking you back to school so you can serve your detention."

Bart groaned and followed her. As he passed through the living room, both Santa's Little Helper and Snowball II fled from his presence in terror.

_Cool_, he thought with delight. _Animals run away from me. I must be truly evil. I wonder what else I can do with my evil powers…_

Todd Flanders was playing in the yard with his pet frog when Bart wandered past, waving his fingers sinisterly. An odd sensation gripped him, and he hurried toward the front door, clutching his frog.

"Rod, help!" he beseeched his older brother. "Satan is tempting me!"

"Don't have a cow, man," said Rod flippantly.

_Car, break_, Bart thought urgently. _Car, break. Car, break…_

But the car didn't break, and Marge continued to drive him toward the school where he would have to endure his punishment. _Maybe my powers only work on kids and animals_, he thought.

* * *

As was his habit, Homer went directly to Moe's Tavern after enjoying dinner at his house. The usual crowd was gathered, including Barney, Lenny, and Carl.

"Hiya, Homer," said Lenny, sniffing the air. "You still smell like skunk."

"Hey, I heard your little girl's going to a new school," said Carl. "How's that coming along?"

"Oh, fine, fine," said Homer as he took a seat at the bar. "Except that some blind kid groped her."

"I'm sure he didn't mean nothin'," said Barney. "When you're blind, it's hard to tell if you're shaking a girl's hand or touching her privates. Same as when you're drunk."

"So what'll it be, Homer?" Moe asked. "The usual? A beer?"

Homer was about to nod his assent, when a voice called to him. "Stop!"

"Huh?" He glanced around, and to his surprise, the six-inch-tall green man was floating above the bar directly in front of him.

"Not one drink until you've heard me out," the strange little man demanded.

"Beat it, Marvin," groused Homer, who then tried to bat the alien away. His hand only passed through a green mist that reformed itself into the shape of the mysterious visitor.

"Who's Marvin?" asked Lenny.

"The Martian guy who keeps pestering me," said Homer. "He saw me in the shower today. Got a good view of me from both sides."

"Geez, Homer's talking to Martians," Carl remarked. "And he's not even drunk yet."

"Your friends can't see or hear me," said the alien. "My business is with you, and you alone."

"Go away!" Homer snapped.

"Are you talkin' to me?" Moe asked.

"No, I'm talking to the stupid Martian."

"I'll get you two beers," said Moe, shaking his head incredulously.

"For your information," said the green man, "I'm not from Mars. I am from the planet Orbicron Theta, in a galaxy so far away that your most powerful telescopes cannot detect it. Also, my name is not Marvin, but Ozmodiar."

"For your information," said Homer sharply, "you don't exist. So stop not talking to me."

Ozmodiar continued his speech while Moe filled a pair of beer mugs. "We Orbicrons have the power to alter reality, and we use this power to grant the fondest wishes of randomly selected individuals. It was the wish of a devoted baseball fan that caused the Red Sox to win the last World Series."

"Wait," said Homer, taking a sip of beer. "You're a magical dude from outer space, and you've come to grant me a wish?"

"It's more complicated than that, I'm afraid."

"I hate my job," Homer complained. "If you have the power to give me any job in the world, then I wanna be Duff Man. Or the President of the United States. Er…no. Duff Man."

"If you'd just listen to me…"

"Oh, is that too hard? Okay, let's try something simpler. I wish I had hair. I wish I wasn't fat." He ran his fingers over the top of his head, and looked down at his belly. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"You don't understand, Homer."

"Stupid magical alien," Homer groused, downing his mug of beer quickly.

"If you get drunk, you'll lose the ability to see and hear me," Ozmodiar warned him. "And I have something very important to tell you."

"Hey, I want a wish too," said Barney. "I wish my apartment was clean."

"I wish I was the smartest person on Earth," said Lenny.

"Don't forget what happened to the last guy who wished for that," said Carl. "He turned into a woman."

"Prepare yourself for a rude shock when you wake up in the morning," said Ozmodiar as he faded in and out of Homer's view.

* * *

Edna Krabappel was scarcely aware of what she was doing. She knew only one thing—either she or Bart Simpson would soon be dead.

"Get me the warden," she spoke into the telephone.

"Yes, ma'am," replied the receptionist at Springfield Penitentiary.

"This is the warden," came a polite but firm man's voice. "How may I help you?"

"I want to know when Robert Terwilliger's parole hearing is going to take place," Edna requested.

"Wednesday at six p.m.," the warden told her. "May I put you down as a character witness?"

"Yes," Edna answered. "I'm Bart Simpson's teacher. Believe me, if you knew Bart like I do, you'd thank Sideshow Bob for trying to kill him."

* * *

"I want a fresh pot of coffee waiting for me in the morning, Mom," said Bart confidently. "I'm going to lie awake all night thinking of ways to torment Principal Skinner."

"He was imprisoned and tortured for eighteen months in Vietnam, Bart," Lisa reminded him.

"Yeah, but they didn't break him," said Bart. "Someone's got to finish what those amateurs started."

"You may have scared Mrs. Krabappel away," Lisa warned him, "but you haven't licked the system yet. Someday it's going to come down on you, hard."

"Time for bed, kids," said Marge gently.

Bart, still smirking, hurried up the stairs and sealed himself inside his room. While ascending, Lisa turned to her mother and remarked, "I shouldn't have called him evil. Now it's gone to his head."

With the children tucked away, Marge settled in for another night in the company of her beloved husband. On this occasion, Homer appeared a tad worried. "Something wrong, Homie?" she asked.

"It's probably nothing," said Homer as he pulled his nightshirt over his head. "I've been seeing this little green alien guy all day, and he told me to expect a shocking surprise in the morning."

"You've been working too hard," said Marge.

"Damn straight," Homer concurred. "I need to take some time off. I've been imagining all kinds of stuff lately. Lisa going to prep school, Bush getting re-elected…"

"Those things really happened," Marge pointed out.

"Of course they did, honey," said Homer patronizingly.

He switched off the lamp, and was soon tossing and turning. While Marge snoozed peacefully, he pondered Ozmodiar's dire warning. If the green man truly possessed the power to alter reality, then the world as Homer knew it might drastically change overnight. He didn't know what to think. It was late, and his brain was tired.

The ringing of an alarm clock roused him from slumber. He had expected beeping.

He slowly opened his weary eyes. The room had the same dimensions as before, but he had the feeling that something was absent. _My imagination's running wild again_, he thought. _Still, it can't hurt to perform a routine reality check._

He raised his hands to his head and fondled his scalp. _Still bald_. He lowered his hands until they were over his chest. _Still a man_. He moved his hands to his belly. _Still fat_.

It occurred to him that the sunlight streaming through the blinds was much brighter than it had been the previous day at the same time. _Oh, my God, the sun's gone nova!_

Glancing at the clock, which had somehow changed from being digital to having hands and a face, he realized that someone had set the alarm to an hour later than normal. This was good, because it meant the world wasn't coming to an end. At the same time it was bad, because…

"Marge, get up!" he cried. "I'll be late for work!"

No answer came. The room was utterly silent.

"Marge?"

Homer turned on his side. Not believing what he saw, he rolled onto his other side. Marge wasn't in the other half of the bed. There was no other half of the bed. He was lying on a full-size mattress instead of the queen-size to which he was accustomed.

He leaped clumsily from the bed. Looking down, he noticed that he was wearing only underpants. He didn't recall having removed his pajamas. _I must have been really drunk_, he thought.

Things only became stranger. The furniture was arranged differently from what he remembered. The framed portraits of Bart, Lisa, and Maggie were no longer hanging on the wall. In their place were several posters of bikini-clad models.

_Marge will kill me if she sees those_, he told himself. _But where did they come from? And where's Marge?_ Obviously nowhere nearby, judging from the articles of men's clothing haphazardly strewn across the floor.

He reached into the closet for a bathrobe, and found one made from red velvet as opposed to the customary green robe. Marge's dresses were conspicuously gone.

Had she abandoned him during the night?

Throwing the robe around his nakedness, he hurried from the bedroom in a panic. "Marge! Lisa! Maggie! Boy!" he wailed. No one answered.

The kitchen was an unholy mess. Food scraps littered the floor and counter tops. On the refrigerator, where he should have seen Bart's and Lisa's grade-school drawings held neatly in place by magnets, only half-legible scrawls on post-it notes were visible. The food and water bowls intended for Santa's Little Helper and Snowball II were missing.

He wandered into the living room. The TV was in its usual location, but the ratty couch was coated in stale potato chips and cheese curls. The stench of beer was almost overwhelming.

_It's my house, all right_, thought Homer feverishly. _But it's like Marge never existed_.

On the upper floor, the door to what he thought was Lisa's bedroom opened. _Lisa! She'll explain everything!_

It wasn't Lisa who emerged, but the bleary-eyed Barney Gumble, also clad in a bathrobe. "Mornin', Homer," he said groggily. "Buuuurp."

"Barney?" the startled Homer blurted out. "What are you doing in Lisa's room?"

"Who's Lisa?" the lush responded.

Bart's bedroom door flew open, and a haggard-looking man stepped out. "What's with all the shouting?" he complained. "Can't ol' Gil get some proper sleep?"

"Waugh!" Homer screamed in terror. He didn't stop running until he reached the front gate of the Flanders house. Barefoot and breathing heavily, he struggled to calm himself and make sense of his transformed surroundings.

The next sight he beheld didn't help matters at all.

"Good morning, Homer," came a sweet woman's voice.

It was Maude. Maude Flanders.

"M-Maude?" he stammered. "B-but you're dead!"

The slender redhead chuckled. "Well, I do look a bit ghastly without my makeup, but don't you think that's overstating it?"

Homer nearly broke down the wooden gate in his haste to reach the woman. "Tell me what's happening!" he pleaded. "Why are you alive? Where's Marge? Where are my kids?"

"Kids?" said Maude incredulously. "You don't have kids."

Ned approached the pair from his front door, his moustache considerably bushier than when Homer had last seen it. "Hi-diddly-ho, neighborino," he said in a sickeningly friendly tone. "What can I do you for?"

"Where's Marge?" demanded the frantic Homer.

"Marge? Marge Bouvier?" Ned's expression became wistful. "That girl you had a crush on all those years ago? Golly, I didn't know you still carried a torch for her."

"This is all your doing, Flanders!" Homer accused him. "Well, except for the pictures of the bikini babes. Who helped you?"

"I think the alky-hol is playing tricks with his memory again," Ned muttered to his wife.

"Take it easy, Homer," said Maude with concern. "You're just having a little delusion. You're not married. You have no children. You've been living next door to us with your roommates, Barney and Gil, for the past ten years."

Homer could only stare in confusion. _This must be a dream_, he tried to convince himself.

"I hope we were able to help you straighten things out," said Ned. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to run to the mall and open up the Leftorium. Ciao-diddly-ao."

He skipped away, leaving the astonished Homer to face the mysteriously resurrected Maude—and Ozmodiar, who had abruptly reappeared.

"This is what I was trying to warn you about, dumb-dumb," the floating alien chided him. "But you were too busy being stupid to listen."

Homer scowled bitterly. "Stupid Martian! I didn't wish for any of this. I sure as hell didn't wish for Maude to come back to life."

"Who are you talking to?" Maude inquired.

"You're quite right," said Ozmodiar calmly. "This is not your wish. I didn't choose you—I chose another man." His voice began to quiver. "When he made his desire known to me, I was disgusted. I've never encountered such selfishness anywhere else in the universe. Still, I had sworn to grant his wish, whatever it might be."

To Maude, it appeared that Homer was gazing into empty space with wide, bewildered eyes.

"I found a way to get back at him, though," the green man went on. "He thought nobody would be hurt by his wish, since under standard practices, only the wisher knows that reality has been altered. In this case, however, you know it as well. It's no longer a victimless crime."

Clarity seeped into Homer's mind. "Oh, God," he said somberly. "Somebody wished my family away from me."

Ozmodiar nodded.

"Who is he?" Homer bellowed. "I'll kill him!"

"Such a primitive response," said the alien arrogantly. "You humans call yourselves civilized, yet your solution to every problem is to find a scapegoat and publicly execute him."

"Who is he?" Homer shouted again.

"I'll tell you," Ozmodiar offered, "but you must promise not to confront him with violence. That's not the way. Reason with him. Make him aware of the pain he has caused. Did I mention he has a week to change his mind and reverse the wish?"

"All right, I promise," said Homer impatiently. "Now tell me his name, so I can hold a freaking peace conference with him."

Ozmodiar took a deep breath and gazed at Homer seriously.

"His name is Artie Ziff."

* * *

Coming soon: Springfield Springs Forward II 


End file.
